


There is a dark place (but I’m not going there)

by pizzatime



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Mentions of Character Death, inspired loosely by perks of being a wallflower, psychiatric patient
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-03 23:42:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14580234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pizzatime/pseuds/pizzatime
Summary: He tries not to think too hard about where he is, or why. Because when he thinks about why, he thinks about blood.  And then he starts thinking about how many others are just like him and saw what he saw, and did what he did, and how much crime there is in the world and there’s so much pain and so many bad people and horrible accidents- it’s easy to get stuck in a loop, and he finds himself staring at nothing, seeing nothing, feeling nothing and that emptiness is terrifying and he’d rather not feel that way, if he can help it.(Or the one where Peter is a patient in a mental health ward)





	There is a dark place (but I’m not going there)

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired very loosely by Perks of Being a Wallflower, and my own experience of spending three months in a psychiatric ward in 2017. Interpret it how you will. Also, if anyone wants to expand on this work, feel free! I probably won't ever expand on this.

He’s not sure when exactly he became aware of his surroundings. His memory of the last… however long it’s been is limited. He remembers carrying a pillow and sitting in an armchair for a long time, but not caring enough to know why. He remembers holding his hand forward as a stranger fixed a plastic band about his wrist. He both remembers it and he doesn’t, as if they are someone else’s memories rather than his own. He can’t quite get his head around the fact that he’s been here for quite some time, but simultaneously, he knows he has. But he tries not to think too hard about where he is, or more accurately, why. Because when he thinks about _why,_ he thinks about blood. Puddles. Rain. Gunshots. Blood. Arguments. Blood. _Blood._ And then he starts thinking about how many others are just like him and saw what he saw, and did what he did, and how much _crime_ there is in the world and there’s so much pain and so many bad people and horrible accidents- it’s easy to get stuck in a loop, and he finds himself staring at nothing, seeing nothing, feeling nothing and that emptiness is terrifying and he’d rather not feel that way, if he can help it. It’s much nicer to pretend that life is just peachy, nothing terrible happened and things are just like they were Before.

Each day becomes a little clearer and he becomes more aware of where he is and what that means and he begins to feel more present which is both a blessing and a curse.

There’s a strict manual to follow here – everything has a set time and nothing is optional, which would have irritated him Before, but he welcomes such rigid structure with open arms, now. He doesn’t think his brain could cope with it any other way just yet.

Awakening comes via a knock on the door at 7:30, regardless of whether it’s a weekday or weekend. Breakfast is at 8:00. Pills at the nurse’s station at 8:30. Observations straight after; blood pressure, temperature, oxygen levels, the works. The day then unfolds through a series of designated meal and snack times, therapy sessions, down time and instant coffee. Lots of instant coffee. He tries to get outside, at least once a day, even if he can only go as far as the smoker’s courtyard. He hasn’t taken up smoking despite being offered the opportunity by other patients on multiple occasions, only because he knows how much May would hate that, and he can’t let her down. More now than ever.

His doctor visits at strange times and they talk about what’s working, what’s not, and Peter doesn’t talk about That Night because it’s still too raw, but also too scrambled, incoherent. It’s kind of like when they show a horrible accident on the news and the bodies are fuzzy, blurred out of focus, but you know exactly what’s beneath it all.

The food is pretty terrible (but he couldn’t care less), and he doesn’t mind sitting through the group sessions, selectively listening to the other patients describe their experience, discuss strategies. There’s a small garden they tend to once a week, a short walk to a tiny bridge three times a week and creative therapy most days to break up the drier or more difficult sessions. They’re increasingly insistent that he participate now that he’s not so empty, but most of the time he can just listen or read, because he doesn’t think he’s ready to express himself just yet, not in any shape or form. Because then he has to think about what happened and how it happened and why he’s here and who’s _not_ and then his brain will just empty itself out again because it can’t _cope_ with what happened and why it did and the role he had to play in it all. A small, terrified part of him knows that he’ll have to talk about it eventually, but he’s happy to take his time and no one is being particularly pushy about it.

So he settles in on his comfortable loop. Wake up, eat, pills, obs, therapy, listen, read. He keeps his earphones in a lot of the time. He doesn’t listen to anything, music doesn’t make sense anymore, but it seems to stop people talking to him, and that suits him just fine. Sure, some people have tried, but he’s pretty non-verbal, so conversations never last too long. Which is odd for Peter, because Before, he could hardly shut himself up. He kept up a running commentary about anything and everything, but he likes to get by only saying what’s strictly necessary these days because opening his mouth and producing speech is exhausting.

The other patients are nice and not at all what he expected them to be. They generally don’t bother him to say much, but still involve him in conversations and let him sit with them, even though he doesn’t have much to offer. They seem satisfied by his shrugs and don’t seem to mind his near constant wearing of earphones. There’s a few that are loud and unpleasant and one lady that’s even a little scary (she introduced herself as the ‘mama’ of the ward and Peter did _not_ want a new mama, please and thank you, and he certainly didn’t want the free (and forced) hug, either). Another lady is from Australia and he gets a strange enjoyment from hearing her say water. War- _tar_ , she says. It’s a strange place but he’s doing his best to just pretend it’s a really peculiar vacation in a terrible, hospital-like resort. The nurses are mostly nice, some a little too strict, and he feels watched just about every second of the day, but he clings to the structure and goes through the motions, because they say that if he does, things will get better.  
Visitors are allowed between in the evening, and he’s even allowed leave during visiting hours now that his brain isn’t so empty. Aunt May visits every day she can and he never wears his earphones when she’s there. He doesn’t mind talking for Aunt May. Doesn’t mind for MJ or Ned, either, and they visit a lot. Sometimes together, sometimes apart.

He’s making himself an instant coffee in the deserted dining room when he hears someone strike the piano keys with a whole lot of passion and not much talent. There’s a vague sort of melody jumbled up with off-tune keys and accidental chords and it’s completely _awful_ but somewhat endearing for the effort and gusto _._ He doesn’t need to turn around to know _who_ is playing. Wade Wilson, a patient from an older ward, is notorious for musical outbursts (a whole lot of other general outbursts, too). Peter still hasn’t decided if he hates the guy or thinks he is hilarious. He ducks his head and turns, aiming for a quick, unnoticed escape because Wade Wilson is _not_ satisfied by Peter’s lack of conversation skills and generally wants to talk (and talk, and _talk_ ) and Peter just wants to go back to his ward and watch whatever shitty game show is playing on the shared TV. The exit is right by the piano, so it’s an ambitious goal, but he hightails it and hopes for the best. He’s nearly made it when the music stops and an obnoxiously loud _“Hey, Pedro!”_ followed by a scraping of the piano seat being shoved backwards makes him stop in his tracks, coffee sloshing up and out of his cup, making a dark stain down the front of his hoodie. 

“Crap-” he turns on the spot, pulling his sleeve over his hand to try and mop up the coffee dripping down his front.

There’s a scuffling of feet and, looking up, Peter sees Wade skipping ( _skipping_.) away only to return with serviettes which he shoves forwards with a definite air of pride.

“You really fucked that up. Was that my fault? Didn’t mean to scare you. In total honesty though, for the record, it’s pretty fucking _hilarious_ scaring you and you make it so, _so_ easy.”

Peter snatches the paper towel, looking up momentarily to shoot the man a quick glare as he cackles happily. His hood is up, shadowing his face, but the scars are just as inflamed and noticeable as ever, creating a flickering of curiosity that he can’t be bothered fanning.

With his hands free of the serviettes, Wade is shooting a hand outwards, “Wade Wilson, killer comedian, fabulous friend, pathological liar.”

Peter eyes the offered hand but doesn’t return the handshake, nor does he introduce himself. They’ve had this exact exchange a few times now. The other man _knows_ his name. Wade, to his credit, shakes his own hand, effectively smothering what should have been an awkward moment.

“Not much of a talker, ey? That’s alright, Patrick, I can talk for both of us.”

A nurse walks past and Peter tries to catch their eye, tries to silently signal for them to rescue him from this encounter to no effect.

“So, Pablo, coffee? I’ll make you one, only fair since I ruined your first.” He nods towards the coffee station.

Peter eyes his empty coffee cup, “Um-“

“ _It speaks!”_

Wade shrieks and Peter winces. The older man must notice, because he lowers his voice with a hushed apology, “Sorry, sorry! C’mon, coffee. I’m buying.”

“Uh- the coffee’s free?”

“It’s the thought that counts, Patricia.” With that, Wade plucks the empty Styrofoam cup from Peter’s hands, tossing it in the general direction of the trashcan (and missing entirely) and Peter sums up his options. One; he can head to the smoker’s courtyard and kill time until dinner. Two; he can have shitty coffee with a somewhat deranged man.

Against his better judgement, he settles on the latter. He’s got no visitors today – Ned and MJ are at a decathlon event and May is working, he might as well be entertained.

He shuffles over to Wade, the man already stirring up two cups of coffee, adding way too much milk and artificial sweetener to one cup, a dash of milk to the other.

“You’re really bad at piano.” He’s not sure why he decides to break his silence with _that,_ but at least it’s honest.

Wade snorts, pulling out a chair at one of the tables, plonking himself down heavily into the seat, kicking his feet up onto the table. Peter sits gingerly opposite, taking the coffee as it’s offered, sipping slowly.

“You shouldn’t insult me. I’m _unstable._ ” Wade says it like he’s _proud_ and Peter’s just as confused as always. “But you’re right, I’m _horrid._ Trying to learn though. Youtube’s a shit teacher. I’m really just waiting for my Uber Eats to arrive. The food here tastes like total _ass_ on a Sunday morning, don’cha think? _Total ass.”_

Peter shrugs, since he was admitted, he’d just eaten when he was told and what he was told without much thought. He takes another sip and eyes his strange companion.

“I ordered Thai. Enough for a small army. You can have some. Anyway, Pippa, what’d you do to end up in here? Breakdown in a supermarket? Or was it a movie theatre? Me, personally, I’ve done both. No judgement here. The organic aisle triggers the best of us.” The way the man can go from talking a mile a minute to expectant silence is seriously giving Peter whiplash. He’s kind of stunned by the question, too. It’s kind of just an unspoken thing; don’t ask anyone _why_ they were admitted. It’s insensitive, too raw, too personal. But he knows better by now than to be overly surprised by anything Wade says and he tries not to get too worked up over the question.

“Uh-” He’s surprised by his own willingness to mull over the question. Why is he here? It’s one of the very things he’s been steadfastly avoiding thinking about. What can he say? He saw something he can’t unsee? Something so consuming that he forgot how to see or do anything else? There’s no safe answer.

“I lost someone.” That’s sort of safe. He shrugs again, looking back down at his shitty coffee, clasping it with both hands.

“Rough. Life is a shit show, hey? And you seem like a good kid, so, I’m sorry. Really.”

Peter’s caught off guard by the sincerity of his words and glances back up, brow furrowed. Wade’s phone buzzes and he gulps his coffee down in one go, looking him dead-on. “Life dishes up the shittiest of shit to people who seriously don’t deserve it. _But,_ from one nutcase to another, it can’t get any worse, right? Things are going to get better. That’s something.” He swings his feet off the table and shoves his chair back with a screech. “That’s my food-cue. But I’m around, alright, kid? You need someone to talk to, I’m around.” And with that, he’s walking out of the dining room, disappearing as he rounds the corner.

Peter eyes the spot where Wade disappeared, reeling from the entire odd interaction. He has a feeling the guy is actually pretty wise, underneath all those layers of wisecracking, anyway, and he decides he doesn’t particularly dislike the guy. He holds onto his words as he shoves back his own chair, tossing away his coffee cup and trusting that things will get better. He thinks they might be improving, already.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Let me know what you think!  
> I have no plans on expanding on this, so feel free to take this and explore the concept further! I'd love if you could let me know if you do!


End file.
